


ease your solitude

by perpetualskies



Category: Sand Castle (2017)
Genre: Do Not Repost to Other Sites, M/M, matt could use some input from r/relationship_advice, slightly cracky humour, somewhat established relationship (although matt would like to establish it some more), very mild teen rating, workplace impropriety but we love to see it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:22:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27195082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perpetualskies/pseuds/perpetualskies
Summary: Things run differently during a sand storm.
Relationships: James Harper/Matt Ocre
Comments: 7
Kudos: 7





	ease your solitude

**Author's Note:**

> This was intended to be a little blurb because I was craving writing these boys but was having trouble continuing any of my existing WIPs. Then this morphed into a proper fic and I got stuck on this one too. 😅
> 
> The title is from the song "No Son Will Ease Their Solitude" by Future of the Left. My friend sent it to me saying it reminded her of Matt, from what I've been telling her about him.
> 
> Constructive criticism is always welcome. Comments are ❤.

Matt wakes up to a lot more commotion than usual, grabs at Burton’s shoulder as he moves past his bunk. “What’s going on?” he asks, still pressed flat against the mattress. For a fantastical, sleep-addled moment he thinks _what if the war is over and we are being told to pack it up and just go home._

“Sand storm,” Burton replies, and cracks a grin. Matt makes a grunt-like noise of acknowledgement and lets his head fall back onto the bed. He’s not entirely sure why those news make Burton so happy, until orders come down to hold the convoy, and Matt figures that yeah, this warrants a good mood indeed. He’s just come back from the mess hall when Harper rounds them up and debriefs them; resources are being shuffled around to attend to the more menial tasks at Camp Warhorse that there usually isn’t much time for, and those, Matt finds out very quickly, are reserved for the very bottom of the command food chain, because _of course_ they are. It stings a little because Matt strongly suspects that nobody else in his team is going to be tasked with doing much of, well, anything, really, and while there is admittedly little Harper can do to get him out of this, he could at least _pretend_ to feel a little sorry for him, is what Matt _personally_ thinks.

So Matt resigns himself to spending the next couple of hours doing inventory in a windowless storage room and gets to it. It’s better than being on the road by any means, and he is _not_ ungrateful for that; he also figures that if he gets through this fast enough, he might still get a little time to himself after all. He hasn’t pulled out his journal in forever, meaning since Baghdad, and maybe he could find a quiet little spot to hole up in with his discman, and possibly even take Aika, and draw, and get his mind off things, if only for a while.

Matt realises pretty fast that that is somewhat of a pipe dream; he’s slow and keeps recounting everything, his thoughts constantly straying, his yawns getting steadily more frequent and intense. He’s pretty sure he isn’t making nearly as much progress as he should, even without having anyone there to compare himself to. He is _not_ thinking about Harper, or at least trying to, rather unsuccessfully; at some point he considers if the team might have collectively pulled a practical joke on him by sending him down here—he wouldn’t put it past them in the least. He doesn’t have a watch on him and wonders if he might have already missed lunch, or if anyone would actually bother to come and get him. Matt’s zoning out, _again_ , when he hears knocking on the door. He turns around and sees Harper step into the room, smoothly closing the door behind him, and his pulse tellingly quickens. He catches Harper’s eye, then looks back at his clipboard, staring intently at his tally of canned vegetables and rice. 

“How is it going?” Harper asks when he comes over.

Matt clears his throat. “We have a curious surplus of canned mushrooms,” he reports. “Really, the corn and kidney beans have nothing on them according to my count.”

Harper tries and miserably fails to keep his face straight. “Maybe it’s a conspiracy,” he says, and Matt just rolls his eyes at him.

Harper’s face softens. He touches a hand to Matt’s elbow and moves a little further into his personal space. “Canned mushrooms aside,” he asks, “will I be seeing you tonight?”

“You _already_ see me every night,” Matt reminds him pointedly. He _does_ consider sometimes if he’s making it too easy, if Harper’s feeling a little bit too comfortable getting exactly what he wants each single time. Matt doesn’t _like_ thinking that way but there are things that have been grating on him lately, with no particularly casual way to bring them up, and so he doesn’t, except that only puts him on edge more.

“Yeah, but,” Harper adds, the corner of his mouth hitching up into a smirk, “I mean _seeing_ seeing you.”

Matt sighs dramatically. “I don’t know. I might be just too tired after all this... _counting_ ,” he says, motioning vaguely to the stacked supplies all around him.

Harper’s smirk widens. “Maybe you should take a break then,” he suggest, stepping in a little closer still, crowding Matt against the shelves behind him. “It’s only responsible.”

“I have orders,” Matt persists, albeit weakly. His eyes are already trained on Harper's lips, and nowhere near subtly either. “It’s quite out of my hands, rea—” 

“Shh,” Harper says, and closes his mouth over Matt’s. He plucks the clipboard from Matt’s hands and drops it onto one of the shelves behind him, and Matt’s arms automatically rise and link at the back of Harper’s neck, his entire body treacherously giving in into the kiss. It feels forever since they did this, not at all like it was only late last night, ignoring curfew, the way Matt had to clasp a hand over his mouth. The memory makes something in him spike, sharp and dangerous and pleasant; one of Harper’s hands moves round to the small of his back, the other cupping Matt’s hip bone, and Matt arches his back a little, pulling himself closer, seeking out every little touch. Harper tilts his head to the other side and tangibly smiles against his lips before he kisses deeper, and Matt emphatically thinks _fuck_ , and not much after that.

It takes Matt a moment to open his eyes when Harper’s mouth leaves his, and when he does, he’s not quite sure if he should feel offended because Harper looks very much like he is trying exceedingly hard to not laugh in his face.

“What?” Matt says, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. 

“I just can’t stop thinking about those mushrooms,” Harper replies, and then they _both_ crack up, Harper still managing to press a series of kisses to Matt’s jaw and neck in-between their fits of laughter, and Matt lets him, feels warm and safe and grounded for a moment, holds on maybe just that little bit too tight.

Matt’s really bad at gauging time when they’re like this, when Harper’s all he has to go by; when Harper finally draws back his smile is easy, his hands the lightest pressure on Matt’s hips. It strikes Matt now and then how young he is, how young they _both_ are, and Matt follows the impulse to reach out, to brush his fingers through his hair and run his knuckles gently down his cheek. It takes Matt a moment to remember that he was in this storage room for a reason, for his mind to reshape around things that _aren’t_ Harper; it’s been getting harder and harder to do so over the course of the last couple of weeks. Matt’s hand moves down to Harper’s chest, fingertips tapping lightly on his sternum; he bites his lip, fighting the urge to lean in for another kiss. Then somebody in the hall passes by a little bit too close, and Matt’s hands fall immediately to his sides, while Harper takes a quick and solid step away.

“Lunch is in half an hour,” Harper tells him when it is clear the footsteps are receding. “Just finish what you can until then and you’re good.”

Matt smooths down his shirt and in- and exhales deeply. “You could have led with that, you know,” he chides him, because _really._ Harper lifts one shoulder in a shrug and grins and Matt just shakes his head. He feels a thrum of irritation, familiar by now, and it is not about the damned inventory either, at least not solely. It’s not like they’ve got any options, Matt _knows_ that; they’re lucky as it is not getting caught. It’s just—sometimes it hurts how little say he has, how there are just some things he has to _deal_ with; how easily rank and chain of command outstrip whatever it is that they have. Maybe if there was a promise of something—that’s where Matt stops himself, fully aware that this isn’t something he can actually ask for. They can’t even promise each other tomorrow, let alone anything beyond that; doesn’t mean Matt’s mind doesn’t slip up sometimes and wander somewhere dangerously stateside but that's for him to deal with on his own. It’s how things are right now, and Matt is _not_ ungrateful for them; it’s just—it stings sometimes, is all. 

“You’re not the only one with some kind of leverage in this relationship,” Matt says, turning back around and reaching for the clipboard; there is slightly more of an edge to his voice than he intended and he is glad for the excuse to not look Harper in the eye. 

Harper’s hands are back on his hips momentarily. He steps in close, his lips brushing the shell of Matt’s ear when he says, “Believe me, I’m aware.”

Matt blushes, feels Harper nuzzle briefly at a favourite spot behind his ear. He lightly squeezes Matt’s hips once before he steps away, and Matt doesn’t turn around until he hears the door open and close, until he’s sure he is alone again. He brings his fingers to the spot Harper just touched and loses focus for a moment; it happens quite a lot when Harper is involved. The way he makes him feel—it doesn’t exactly help with not imagining— _something_ , and sometimes Matt gives in, thinks stadium dates and learning how to make each other’s coffee, falling asleep together with absolutely nothing on their minds.

It would be foolish to bring any of it up, Matt’s not _entirely_ lost it. Tomorrow, they’ll be out there on that road again, and Matt’s stomach tightens up just thinking of it in advance. They are such perfectly reliable targets—it’s only a matter of time until someone seizes on the opportunity, and Matt smiles wryly, can’t help but think: _will it be in the front or in the back_. He wanes his mind off of it, returning to the task at hand, the way it’s almost calming. Touches his hand to a little spot behind his ear from time to time.

* * *

Matt _does_ see Harper that night, and many of the nights that follow. Sees him his last night in Iraq, before a lot of months that go by in a blur. Sees him the first time out of a uniform that autumn, knowing already how he takes his coffee. He doesn’t quite know what to say, and Harper seems to understand. It’s not as simple as _imagining it_ , Matt learns that pretty quickly. It takes a lot of time for them to fall asleep together, and longer still before there’s next to nothing on their minds. Matt’s everything but ungrateful for it; treats every day like the unspoken promise that it is.


End file.
